


Touché - ABANDONED

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Sports, Angst, Blackmail, Cuddles, F/M, Fencing, Injury, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Sherlock Whump, Whump, also science
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:12:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 19,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2752337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, the newest member of the rugby team, is in for a surprise when he meets the ice-cold captain of the fencing club, Sherlock Holmes. Abandoned as of 10/16</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Club Fair

John was errantly wandering around the campus grounds, gazing at the club fair tables. It was an uncharacteristically sunny day, and a light breeze made the scene quite enjoyable. Here and there, one caught his eye, but it was only a passing interest, and he quickly moved on. So far, he’d only signed up for one club: Future Doctors, run by a cheerful junior named Molly, who seemed happy to have somebody else in the club. Spotting the sports section, he made a beeline for it, paying more attention to the banners now. Finally, he found what he was looking for. The school colors flapping merrily in the wind, a sign proclaimed the rugby team. Standing under it was a boy with odd black and silver hair, wearing his rugby shirt. He grinned hugely as John started towards the table.

  
“Hiya, I’m Greg. Are you interested in joining the rugby team? We’ve lots of space for newcomers.” He pumped John’s hand enthusiastically. “We’ve had a bit of a rough year, but we’re hoping to make a comeback.”

  
“Erm, yeah,” John replied, slightly taken aback at the warm welcome. “Where do I sign up?”

  
“Right here,” replied Greg, extending a clipboard and a slightly chewed pen. “Just put down your name and your email, and we’ll get back to you in a few days. Tryouts are in a week, so make sure you’re in good form!” He grinned again.

  
“Ta,” replied John. “I’ll be there.”

  
As his gaze swept over the remaining stalls, he noticed a demonstration going on. Two students were fencing on the pavement, rushing back and forth. John’s interest was piqued; he’d always thought swords and such were rather interesting, but had never bothered to try it out. Strolling over, he decided to watch. The slightly taller of the two seemed to have the upper hand, but it was very difficult to tell since he was so fast. As he pulled back, separating himself from his opponent, John caught a flash of teeth through the mask. He’s toying with his opponent, he realized. Despite the cat and mouse game, the bout ended fairly quickly, as the taller boy scored a series of extraordinarily rapid blows. Had John blinked, he would have missed them. As the two boys shook hands and turned to remove their gear, John walked over to congratulate the winner. However, as he removed his helmet, John’s heart practically stopped.  
The boy had the most stunning, ice-blue eyes John had ever seen, which contrasted sharply with his dark curls, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His high cheekbones and fair skin gave him an almost elfin appearance, but he carried himself with obvious strength that dispelled any notions of frailty. He stared calculatingly at John, who had become completely speechless, his words of praise having gotten stuck in his throat. Sticking out his hand, he cleared his throat slightly.

  
“Hi, um, John Watson. Just wanted to say, er...that was brilliant. Absolutely fantastic. Well done.” He could hardly stop the torrent of words, even as he internally kicked himself for being a gibbering idiot. The fencer arched a single eyebrow, but took the proffered hand.

  
“Sherlock Holmes. And that wasn’t fantastic, I should’ve won in half the time. Maybe if SOMEBODY kept his hand out more, he wouldn’t leave his flank open to a riposte!” He said loudly, eliciting a glare from his opponent, now engaged in a heated debate with a curly-haired girl, presumably his girlfriend.  
“Don’t mind Anderson, he thinks he’s good, and every now and again I need to beat some sense into him,” Sherlock said, diverting John's gaze back towards him. “If you’re not going to sign up, why are you over here?”

  
“How did you-”

  
“You walked here slowly, if you had the intention of joining the club, you would have walked faster. This was a diversion from your main goal. How long have you been playing rugby?” As John opened his mouth again, Sherlock raised a gloved hand. “Calluses on your palms, once-broken nose. Obvious, really.” He shrugged. Noticing Anderson stalking towards him angrily, he turned. “Best see what the master of poor feints wants. Nice meeting you.”

  
“Yeah,” John called out. “You too.” God, his heart was beating so fast, he was sure Sherlock could hear. As he walked away, hands in his pockets. Greg shook his head, completely misunderstanding the events that had taken place. Another poor bastard, hopes demolished by the infamous Sherlock Holmes. Hopefully by next week he’d be back to his old self again; most people needed that long after meeting the cold fencing captain for the first time. He had no idea how wrong he was.


	2. Beans on Toast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John encounters a familiar face at dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update folks, but here's my slightly belated Christmas gift to you all! Happy Holidays!

John scanned the dinner line, fervently hoping for something more appetizing than beans on toast. He’d been living off the stuff for nearly a week now as his paycheck had yet to arrive. He was working shifts in a cafe not to far away from the university, but he’d spent all of last month’s wages on his textbooks. John had promised himself he wouldn’t go crawling to his father for money, especially after Harry had needed bail posting. His father had been against the idea.

  
“Let her spend a few nights there,” he’d grumbled, eyeing the bottom of a pint glass he’d been drinking from. “It’ll teach her a lesson.”

  
But John couldn’t stand the thought of his sister being in jail, even overnight, and eventually scrounged up the funds. To his dismay, however, Harry continued her reckless behaviour, eventually running away to go stay with Clara. Mr. Watson had told her not to come back, and forbid any contact with John. There had been a few desultory letters, mostly out of politeness, but John knew that he and Harry would probably never see quite eye to eye.

  
His train of thought was interrupted by a voice. Blinking himself out of his reverie, John said, “Sorry, what?”

  
“I said, there’s no beans today, you’re in luck.” The rather bored-sounding tone came from his right. Looking over, John saw none other than Sherlock Holmes approaching, holding a tray of food. Just what he needed today. Embarrassed, he rubbed the back of his neck.

  
“Er, how did you-”

  
“There’s a slight stain on your jumper, the same one you wore three days ago. Judging from the colour it’s a brown gravy, and from the angle it makes the food was hand held. The patches in your jumper indicate not just trendiness, but lack of money, so rather than a nice pub dinner you’ve been eating beans on toast. The stain was there earlier this week, which means you’ve been in a situation where you wouldn’t have noticed it, ergo you’ve been eating beans frequently and are most likely sick to the teeth with them.” Noticing John’s blank stare, his brow furrowed. “Have I said something wrong?”

  
“No-it’s just...that’s incredible, that you can tell all that.” Bloody hell, he wasn’t just a great fencer, he must be some sort of genius too. John grinned as Sherlock turned and walked towards an open seat.

  
“Mind if I join you?” He asked, already sliding his tray onto the table.

  
“Go ahead,” Sherlock replied absently, pulling out some notes with complicated-looking equations. “Just don’t spill anything on these.” John scooched his tray to the left to create some leeway as Sherlock requested, then dug into his dinner with gusto. It was good to eat some proper food again. Sherlock had been right, even though he would never admit it. It was true that he was in desperate need of money, but he still had his pride, after all. He’d just have to tighten his belt a little for the next few days, and if he could get by with less then he’d be able to scrape by once again…

  
John broke off his train of thought, noticing that Sherlock was staring at him expectantly, having obviously just asked him something. He shook his head to clear any errant thoughts.

  
“Sorry, what was that?”

  
“I said, you’re dribbling spaghetti sauce on your trousers.” He looked down disdainfully. “A hydrogen peroxide solution will take care of that, I have some if you need it.”

  
“Oh. Oh no, thanks, I’ll take care of it.” John dabbed at the offending stain with a napkin. Christ, he’d made such a bloody fool of himself. If only there was some way to prove to Sherlock that he wasn’t a complete moron…

  
Suddenly an idea struck him. It was a terrible idea and he was going to regret it later, but he had already opened his mouth.

  
“Would you...would you like to come to the rugby match on Saturday? I can get you a good seat if you like.” He clamped his mouth shut, embarrassed. He was babbling again, he was so stupid, and his face had probably turned bright red as he was wont to do in these sort of situations. But to his surprise, Sherlock was staring slightly into the distance, brow furrowed.

  
“Rugby,” he said thoughtfully. “All right, but under one condition. I’m in need of somebody to hold my blades on Tuesday. You’re reasonably clever, would you mind?” Those piercing blue eyes latched onto John’s with a certain impassiveness, as if calculating the probability of an affirmative answer.

  
John nodded slightly, then more vigorously. “Yeah. Yeah, sure, sounds fun. Definitely, Tuesday. Right. No problem.” Slurping down the rest of his spaghetti with ears burning, he hastily got up and carried his tray to the trash can, leaving behind a notebook in his rush. Sherlock picked it up, errantly flipped through it, and placed it in his backpack carefully. Pulling out a felt-tip pen, he scrawled a note on his hand, which read. “Rugby. Tuesday. John.” He underlined the last word, then stowed the pen and stared at the retreating figure, icy eyes as unreadable as ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dinner" is the English term for lunch for any American readers.


	3. An Unexpected Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is awakened by a knock at the door. It's not Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the delay and short chapter everybody! I'm just starting a new semester so everything's a bit hectic right now, but I promise next chapter will be the rugby game to make up for it. Stay warm if you're in the Midwest, because I'm freezing my sorry butt off right now T_T.

It was in the wee hours of the morning on Sunday when John was awakened by a knocking at his door. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he opened the door to see a girl his own age, dressed in a skirt and blazer. Despite the hour, she seemed fully awake.

  
“John Watson?” She asked, giving the impression she knew full well he was John Watson and this was a mere formality. “Come with me please.”

  
John began to form incoherent questions, but was quickly hushed. “This is rather important. You’ll really want to come along now.” Grabbing John’s wrist in a surprisingly firm grip, she began to drag him along. Startled, confused, and just the tiny bit frightened, John stumbled along. Some sort of rugby initiation rite, he guessed. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to do anything too embarrassing. However, as the young woman turned in the opposite direction of the rugby pitch, still holding his wrist, John began to be seriously worried. Was he in trouble? Had something happened to his family? His stomach plummeted. Harry…

  
The young woman practically pushed John into a classroom, unlit save for a single desk lamp. It illuminated a man, not much older than John, sitting behind the teacher’s desk, hands steepled, deep in thought. Noticing John standing uncomfortably in the doorway, he gestured for John to sit in the plastic chair placed in front of the desk. He sat down, grimacing at the scrape of metal on linoleum. As he did, he kept his eyes locked on the young man’s face. His hair was a medium shade of brown with a slight wave to it, and had a strong widow’s peak. A single eyebrow was slightly arched, as if he couldn’t entirely believe that John was currently sitting across from him and fidgeting. As if on cue, his light grey eyes narrowed, and John shrank slightly under the icy gaze. The sensation felt slightly familiar, as if he were being examined, but he couldn’t place it. It was then that the man opposite him began to speak.

  
“My name is Mycroft Holmes,” he said smoothly. Oh God, John had heard of him. He was the student president of the school, and could play every teacher and official he encountered like a piano. Mycroft’s mouth quirked upwards in amusement at the no doubt terrified expression John wore.

  
“Yes,” he continued, “no doubt my reputation precedes me.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk. “It has come to my attention that you’ve invited Sherlock to your rugby game this weekend.” Sherlock? What did he care? As soon as the thought formed, John was hit with another blow of realization. They were related. No wonder that cool, heartless examination had felt so familiar-he’d felt Sherlock’s eyes on him in the exact same way. Mycroft noticed John’s eyes widen.  
“Naturally, I took an interest in the situation, and took the opportunity to do a little...research.” He smiled again, looking smug.

  
“You seem like a decent fellow, John. No criminal record, and only one recorded incident at school. Who was James Sholto?” He asked, with the air of already knowing, but wanting to hear John say it.  
“A...a friend.” John swallowed. James had been in his biology class, and they’d gotten along well. But he was short and gay, and thus an excellent target for bullies. One day, John had seen him cornered by a group of boys, and punched one square in the jaw. He’d gone to the headmaster’s office with ringing ears and a black eye, but considered it worth it. James was the first person he’d ever come out too, and while they’d never officially been in a relationship, they had loved each other. When he’d had to transfer schools, John felt he’d left a piece of his heart behind, but as the years passed, they’d grown apart. He’d seen James several years later, now standing taller than his former protector, stoic and reserved. He’d smiled at John, but the sparkling warmth that had always lit up his eyes was gone. So John had moved on, but he’d never forgotten James Sholto.

  
Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly, furrowing his brow, but nodded and made a humming noise.“I see.” He blinked once, then latched his steel-grey eyes onto John’s warm brown ones.

  
“You’ve probably noticed Sherlock has a reputation for being rather...callous at times. However, he is so quick to use his intellect, his emotions are often disregarded, by others as much as by himself.” He placed his hands on the desk. They were soft hands, never having done a day’s hard work, but their litheness still seemed vaguely threatening.

  
“I’m sure you’re aware of the scandal surrounding Headmaster Collins last year. Ghastly affair. It would be such a shame if a new student, the rising star of the rugby team, were to suffer a similar fate…” he said darkly. “Sherlock may be a pompous, tiresome little demon, but he is my younger brother nonetheless. Rest assured, if you break his heart, I will be watching.”

  
Mycroft pushed the chair back, and grabbing a ubiquitous black umbrella that John had failed to notice, strolled out of the office. John sat in bewilderment, staring at the empty space where Sherlock’s enigmatic brother had been moments before. He’d always tried to avoid attention, so how did Mycroft come across him? Break Sherlock’s heart? But that would mean...John’s heart stuttered. Could Sherlock actually like him? But he was nobody, just a clueless boy from Wessex who Sherlock probably thought was a gibbering idiot. It couldn’t be, he was getting himself worked up over nothing. He stood up and sighed, hoping he could find his way back to his dormitory before morning.


	4. Interlude!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My goodness, where does the time go? It's been almost a month since I updated, and I'm really really sorry! I've had a ton of exams, and I wanted to research how to play rugby so I didn't muck this chapter up, so please have this little interlude to make up for things!

John sat on the locker room bench, leg jiggling with nerves. He ran his hands through his sandy brown hair, and exhaled slowly. He was always a little nervous before matches, and the fact that the team's reputation was riding on today certainly wasn't helping. However, he knew that the cause of the knots in his stomach wasn't a title match, but a certain young captain of the fencing team. John's mind whirled with anxiety. What if he got bored, and left halfway through. Even worse, what if he decided not to show up at all? What if he made a fool of himself on the field?

  
Greg, noticing his friend's distress, sat down on the bench next to him and clapped him on the back reassuringly, maybe a little harder than necessary.

  
"It's all right, John. Everyone's a little keyed up, myself included." He chuckled slightly. "Everything's going to turn out just fine, we just stick to our strategy and we'll have 'em in shambles." John smiled back weakly. Despite his tendency to be overenthusiastic, Greg was always able to cheer up the team when they were down, and today was no exception. As they all jogged out onto the pitch and began warming up, Greg gestured to the team to gather around.

  
"Right lads," he said loudly. "I know we've been a bit down on our luck lately, but this is the year we turn ourselves around and show the world what we're made of. We've got some brilliant new members," here he shook John's shoulder affectionately, "as well as our fantastic strategist Sally." There was scattered clapping as the curly haired girl John recognized from the day of the fair took a mock bow.

  
"Now let's get out there and give them what for!" Greg cried, lifting his fist in the air. The rest of the team joined in, raising their arms to the grey sky. As John shouted, he could feel his spirits lifting slightly, but the pit in his stomach refused to leave.


	5. The Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the rugby match - and the championship - hanging in the balance, John has to make the choice to follow orders or his own plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is what you've been waiting for, folks. The big game. After all the anticipation I've given it, I hope it lives up to your expectations!

John jogged back to his side of the pitch grimly, mouth set in a straight line. The opposing team’s conversion kick had failed, but they’d scored a try, and were now up by twelve points. Greg and Sally’s strategy had worked at first, but the other team had quickly caught on, and were now stymying them at every turn. If they didn’t do something, and fast, they were going to lose.  
As fullback, John’s main task was defence, but as Greg’s secret weapon, he ran with the scrum down the field, passing the ball in and out for a few moments until the players could recuperate. However, this left his part of the pitch dangerously exposed, and the opposing team had managed to savagely exploit it, scoring a full try.  
Greg, noticing John mentally kicking himself, ran over.

“It’s not your fault, John,” he said soothingly. “We took a risk, and this time it didn’t pay off. Don’t worry, we’ll think of something.”

However, John’s main concern the outcome of the game. Despite the first half nearly being finished, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He’d scanned the crowd of cheering students time and time again, yet he’d never caught sight of the distinctive mop of black curls. He was doing his best to focus on the match, yet he couldn’t keep his head from the clouds.  
Sherlock lied, he thought to himself. He lied, because he thought you were a gibbering moron and he just wanted to shut you up and he really didn’t care at all-  
“WATSON!” Came a shout. John’s head snapped up to see a scrum bearing down quickly on him, kicking the ball. Acting on instinct, he feinted left, then whipped the ball away from the mass of bodies, passing it to Greg. Before they could start heading down the field, the whistle blew, signalling the end of the half.  
Groaning, John stepped off the pitch, fists clenched. He made a beeline for the bench, grabbing a bottle of water, then stalking off to find a quiet place where he could seethe quietly. John didn’t like letting other people see his emotions, nor did he like being angry. He’d inherited his father’s short temper, and despite his best efforts, John could be prone to sudden outbursts of rage. It wasn’t until he’d seen Harry’s eyes, filled with horror and shining with tears, that he realized how like his father he’d become. He’d turned his aggression to rugby, the violent sport allowing him to take out his frustrations, but he still could feel a lingering rage at times. He just wished there was some way to quiet it.

Suddenly, a shadow was cast across his face, blocking the wan sunlight. John looked up, blinking in confusion. His stomach flipped when he saw who was standing in front of him.

It was Sherlock, wrapped in a black trench coat, collar turned up against the stiff breeze. He looked down at John, a slight smile quirking his lips upward for a second.

“Sulking, are we?” He said, tilting his head slightly. “How typical.”  
“I’m not - forget it.” John stood up, trying not to show his relief. “I was wondering if you would show up.”  
“Sorry, I was...delayed.”  
“Delayed?” John rose his eyebrows incredulously. “Everyone’s here, how could you have possibly been delayed?”  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Do you have any idea how long it takes for human saliva to coagulate?”  
John stared blankly.  
“Five hours and forty-three minutes,” continued Sherlock, clearly disgusted. “And that was just two milliliters. Do you have any idea how long it takes to get two milliliters of saliva?”  
He held up a hand as John opened his mouth to answer.  
“It doesn’t matter, that was just the first trial. What is relevant is the match. Ah, yes,” he continued, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Match of the century, reputation of our university, fate of the team hangs in the balance, very good and all that. But you’re losing!”  
“Yes,” replied John through gritted teeth. “It would seem we are.” Unconsciously, his fist clenched.  
“That’s what you get for listening to Sally,” Sherlock replied coldly. “Calling her dull would be an insult to posts. Lestrade’s not stupid, but he’s still rather behind the curve.”  
“Now hold on,” replied John, simmering, but was cut off as Sherlock continued.  
“Do you know why he’s still captain? He and Mycroft -”  
“SHERLOCK!”  
The taller boy shut up, mouth snapping shut. He blinked twice, clearly unused to being cut off. John sighed, running his hands through his hair. “If you’re not going to be useful, or even supportive, then I suggest you turn around and go back to whatever it was you were doing,” he said, the evenness of his tone masking his rage. He raised his eyes to meet Sherlock, who stared back coolly. Eventually, he looked away, his face revealing nothing.

“Their left lock has a healing knee injury. If you force the ball on him, you’ll be able to sweep around and take it easily,” he said quietly, turning away. John could see he’d hurt Sherlock, and the realization hit him harder than any scrum he’d ever encountered.  
“Sherlock, wait, I didn’t-”  
If Sherlock heard, he gave no sign.

Suddenly, Greg came jogging over, exasperated.  
“Where’ve you been? The match is ready to start again!”  
John looked at the sky, now rapidly becoming overcast, then back down.  
“Right,” he said, hiding his trembling hand. “Let’s be going, then.”

As they ran back onto the pitch, John stole a glance at the opposing team. They were confident, laughing and slapping each other on the back. However, the boy wearing the number 4 was limping, barely noticeable, but still present. Sherlock had been right, John thought, then pushed the thought away. He couldn’t afford to think about Sherlock right now.  
The whistle blew, and the match began anew.

John placed his hands on his knees, panting. Through some miracle, they were now tied with the opposing team, but the clock was ticking. They’d only have time left for one good try, and if they lost their gamble, the match would be lost. Now, a scrum was bearing down on their end of the pitch, and fast. John approached from the right, hoping to intercept somewhere. The left lock is injured, he remembered dimly. It’s now or never. Lowering his head, he charged from the right. Behind him, he could hear Greg shouting, but he ignored it, watching the lock’s feet for the misstep.

Then, he saw it.

The boy stumbled slightly, and John slipped his foot into the gap, chipping the ball up and into his hands. He ran as fast as he could, clutching the ball like there was no tomorrow. He heard a shout from behind him, and glanced back, seeing Mike Stanford behind him. He tossed the ball, retreating backwards to cover him. However, the opposing team’s fly-half rapidly advanced on him, and he flipped the ball back to John. Catching it once more, it nearly slipped out of his fingers, but he held it tight to his chest and ran. He could hear a dull roar, but was uncertain if it was the crowd or his blood pounding. In his peripheral vision, John could see three burly boys closing in on him.

I won’t make it, he thought desperately, it’s too late. But he still ran on. He closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable impact, but nothing came.

Suddenly, he felt himself being lifted into the air. The roar in his ears resolved itself into cheers and whoops as he was carried across the pitch.  
“We won!” Hollered Greg, carrying his arm. “You did it, John! You did it!” His grin stretched from ear to ear. The adrenaline surged in John’s veins as the full realization of what had just occurred hit him.  
“Yeah,” he replied. “Yeah, I did.” He grinned back. As he watched the crowd, he saw a figure standing on a nearby hill, a black coat billowing around its slight frame. However, as soon as he thought he’d made eye contact, it turned away, running off into the cloudy afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nearly 1 in the morning right now and I have class tomorrow, so sorry if the ending feels a bit rushed. I might change it a bit depending on what you guys and myself think.


	6. The Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets confronted by Mycroft once more about his misbehaviour regarding Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, fair readers! Guess who just got done with finals this morning and is now posting after what feels like forever! (Hint: it's me) On a slightly more serious note, I'm doing some writing for the After Camlann Merlin Big Bang, and I honestly haven't gotten very far with that, and the draft's due in about a month, so there may not be an update until mid-June. However, if inspiration strikes, you guys will get more, so we'll see how this goes. 
> 
> Remember, comments make me write more, so please tell me if there's a scene or anything you want to see, what you like, what you don't like, etc.

It had been a mere six hours after his victory when John stumbled back to his room, slightly tipsy. He’d had a pint or two with the team, but despite their efforts, remained mostly sober. He didn’t need a reminder of what he’d be like if he was drunk - his father served that purpose every day.   
Patting his pockets, he searched irritably for his room key, when suddenly he heard somebody clear their throat behind him. Turning around, he saw the girl from Monday, still dressed formally in a blazer and pencil skirt, dangling his keys in front of him. 

“I’m afraid you won’t be needing these quite yet,” she said, dropping the keys into her bag. “Come with me, John.”

John started off in the direction of the pitch once more, grumpy at having his evening interrupted, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. 

“Wrong way,” the girl - Athena? Antonia? John couldn’t quite remember - said, gently but firmly pulling his arm. “Follow me, now.”

He followed obediently, head and stomach churning alike. Noticing his discomfort, the girl pulled a water bottle out of her seemingly bottomless purse. 

“Sober yourself up,” she commanded. “Mycroft doesn’t like drinkers.”

John chugged a sizeable portion of the water, relishing its refreshing coolness, nipping his impending headache in the bud. However, his stomach still roiled, but whether it was from the alcohol or nervousness, he could not say. 

Eventually, the unlikely pair found themselves in front of the library, an archaic-looking building with high stone towers. Anthea - that was her name, Anthea, John remembered - gestured for him to enter, then departed, her heels clicking away into the night. 

Inside, the library was dimly lit, thin shafts of moonlight streaming in through the narrow windows. The common area was empty, save for a few boys nestled into the large chairs that surrounded a table. John stepped forward into the lamplit circle.

“Hello?” He called. “Is Mycroft there?” One boy looked up from his newspaper sternly, and John directed his gaze at him. “Yes, hello, I’m looking for -” He was cut off as the boy placed a finger to his lips emphatically, gesturing for John to be silent.

“It’s not quiet hours yet,” John protested, “and what’s the point of of me being quiet when there’s only you lot here?”

“There’s not,” came a voice behind him. John started at Mycroft’s voice, whipping around to face the young man. He gestured to a study alcove nearby, indicating that John enter.

“The members of the Diogenes society take their meetings very seriously,” Mycroft said, shutting the door behind him. “They require absolute silence, and enforce it with the utmost prejudice.”  
“What? Why?” John shook his head at the absurdity of the statement. “What’s the point of meeting if you’re not going to talk?”

“Think of it more as a gathering,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “Sons of some of Britain’s most elite, rivals in business, politics - nearly everything. The only way to ensure a lack of conflict is for there to be nothing to argue over.”

“Fair enough, but what’s your point in dragging me out here in the middle of the night?”

“My point,” said Mycroft, reaching into his jacket, “is to show you this.”

He smoothed a piece of paper on the table between them. John looked over idly, but his eyes widened as he saw the picture. It was Sherlock, but he was barely recognizable. The ice-blue eyes were glazed and red-rimmed, his skin pulled taut across his face and whiter than a sheet. He looked hopeless, numb, and completely empty. John’s heart twisted painfully at the sight. Even when his father was at his worst, he’d never seen anybody look so completely - broken. That was the only way to describe it. Sherlock looked broken, a specter of the young man John had met not more than a month before. He placed a hand to his mouth, suddenly feeling sick.

“As you can see,” said Mycroft quietly, “my younger brother has struggled mightily in the past. The tormented genius and such. It’s only recently that he has begun to move away from his former predilections. Fencing has been instrumental as an alternative, but he has remained, shall we say...closed off from others. Anti-social. The conversations with you are the longest he’s spoken to anybody his own age in a very long time.” He sat down, suddenly looking very tired.

“Surely, you can see that your...abrupt dismissal could have potentially disastrous effects on his well-being. While Sherlock can be insufferable at times, our mother would never forgive me if he were to fall back into all habits. And I’m sure I’m correct when I say you have no desire to see this either.” Mycroft steepled his hands, fixing John in his icy stare. John felt like a bug pinned to a wall, held under a glass case offered to a collector.

“I know that you care about Sherlock, John.” John opened his mouth to refute, but was quickly silenced by a glare. “I’m not asking you to throw yourself at his feet and beg for forgiveness. What I am asking is for you to give him one more chance. Go to his fencing match on Tuesday. I will know if you don’t.” He stood up, sliding the chair back under the desk. “John Watson, you have the potential to help Sherlock become something more than he currently is. Not a great man, but a good one. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?” Without another word, he exited the alcove, leaving John standing to ruminate over his words.

 

The next day, John woke up early and made his way over to the gym. Instead of running on the track, as was his usual routine, he went into one of the practice rooms, as Anthea had instructed him to do as she escorted him back. Inside, there was a lone occupant dressed in fencing gear, repeatedly stabbing at a target at the wall. John paused, watching the mesmerizing flurry of bladework. Suddenly, the figure stopped and turned, whipping off his helmet.

“Mycroft sent you,” said Sherlock, panting slightly. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, well, I, ah, wanted to talk to you anyway,” said John, stepping closer to Sherlock. He rubbed his neck, silently cursing as he struggled to form words. “You were right. At the rugby match.”

Sherlock stared at him calculatingly. “Yes, I was. What’s your point?”

“My point is, I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that. It was - it was wrong of me. I’d like to apologize.” John stuck out his hand. “No hard feelings?”

Sherlock studied the offered hand, then removed his glove and shook it. “Very well.” He turned away to resume practicing.

“Can you teach me?” John blurted, immediately wishing he hadn’t said it. He clenched his left hand, mentally berating himself. Of course Sherlock didn’t want to teach him, he had better things to do like - 

“I suppose,” came the cool reply. Sherlock rummaged around in his equipment bag, and pulled out an extra sword and glove. “Put this on.”

John pulled the glove onto his right hand, wiggling the fingers. It was a bit large, and slightly worse for wear, but he still had plenty of movement. Sherlock held the sword out by the handle. 

“This is a foil with a pistol grip,” he said, then wrapped his fingers around the hilt. “Here’s how you hold it.” 

John struggled to wrap his fingers around the grip in the way Sherlock had shown, frustrated at the protruding ridges. Suddenly, a pair of pale hands enclosed around his, rearranging the fingers until the handle fit snugly in his palm. John gulped at Sherlock’s proximity, and studiously looked at his hand. Sherlock stepped back, satisfied. 

“Now, the stance.” He dropped into a slight crouch, feet apart and at a right angle, shoulders turned to the side. “This is en garde, your default position.” John turned his feet and squatted, feeling slightly foolish. And then Sherlock was next to him again, kicking the inside of his foot. “Not past your knee,” he scolded, although there was very little venom in his voice. “And your shoulders....like this.” He placed his hands on John’s torso, rotating him slightly. The heat of his palms burned through the fabric of John’s t-shirt, and he swallowed once again. How on earth was he supposed to concentrate when Sherlock was this close?

“Now, your arm,” said Sherlock, his deep voice vibrating through the air. He placed his long fingers on John’s wrist, extending his arm until the elbow was only slightly bent. This action forced him to rotate as well, so that his chest was nearly pressed against John’s back. It was simply too much, and John broke away, his face reddening. 

“Thanks very much for the lesson,” he muttered, turning away, “but I have to go now. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

Sherlock paused momentarily, but then slipped his helmet over his head once more. 

“Until then,” he replied, voice muffled by the metal mesh. 

John ran out of the gym, heart pounding. How could he be so inept? "Thanks, but I have to go now". Sherlock would have noticed for sure, and he still had to see him on Tuesday! How could he be expected to remain calm for the entire match when he couldn’t even handle ten minutes of Sherlock?

Running his hands through his hair, he sat down on the edge of the track, exhaling hard. Somehow, some way, he had to get a hold of himself. It’s not just about me, he reminded himself, it’s about Sherlock too.

He mustn’t know, John decided. Not yet. For now, we’re just friends. Standing up, he stretched a bit, then forced himself to clear his mind and began running down the track.


	7. The Fencing Tournament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally gathers the nerve to assist Sherlock in his tournament. However, Sherlock's opponent has other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while. I do apologize people, but hopefully things will get back on track again now. To make up for it, please enjoy the fencing match!

John arrived at the building where the fencing tournament was to be held, looking at the address with a furrowed brow. From the looks of things, it appeared to be a converted warehouse - not at all the fancy stadium John was expecting. There were several cars parked outside, but nowhere near the crush that had been present at the rugby match. Squaring his shoulders, John stepped inside.

 

The inside was larger than he had expected, with high ceilings and a crowded floor. Most of the space had been cleared for the fencers, although a few desultory chairs had been set up for spectators. Across the floor lay grey ridged strips with retractable cords at each end, delineating the fencing area. Small scoreboards stood at the middle, wires trailing from their sides.

 

On either side stood five young men, dressed in white canvas knickers and high socks. They were all in various states of warming up, sparring against each other or stretching. Among them, John spotted Sherlock’s distinctive mop of curls, jiggling slightly as he bounced from foot to foot. John trotted over to where he was, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

 

“Um, hi,” he began, leaning across the metal barrier that separated contestant from spectator. “I’m here.”  Brilliant start , he thought to himself sarcastically. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

 

“So it would seem,” he replied. “You’re just in time, I’m on deck.”

 

“What?” asked John, brow furrowing. “What for?”

 

“It means,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes, “that I will be fighting in the second match.” He thrust a towel and a water bottle in John’s general direction. “Hold these.”

 

John accepted the offering, bemused. “Right, so how does this whole fencing...thing work then?” He asked, trying to engage Sherlock in conversation. Sherlock turned to lean against the barrier so that they faced the same direction.

 

“See the grey jacket Anderson’s wearing?” He pointed with his sword. “It’s electrically conductive. There’s a tip to the foil that recognizes that, and when it makes a connection with the lame, it shows on the scoreboard. Obviously, the object is to score more points than your opponent. The scores carry over to each team member, and the team with the most points at the end wins. However, there are rules, primarily ‘right of way’. Whoever initiates the attack holds right of way, until it is taken by a parry. If you don’t have right of way, you cannot score, even if you strike your opponent first.”

 

“That seems rather silly,” John pointed out. “In a real fight, your opponent would be dead too.”

 

“The whole point is  not to be a real fight,” replied Sherlock dismissively. “Foil originated as a gentleman’s sport, meant to instruct, not kill. Now, we turn to our opponents. What do you observe, John?”

 

John looked across the strip to the other team. They stood huddled together, occasionally throwing glances in his direction. One of the members wore distinctively orange, green, and white-striped socks.

 

“They’re Irish?” He guessed, surprised when Sherlock nodded. 

 

“That’s a start,” he said, obviously pleased, “But there’s more to it than that. See the boy on the end? He’s left-handed. That gives him a slight advantage, we’ll need to be careful around him.”

 

“How is being left-handed better?” John asked, brow furrowing again. 

 

“You’ll see,” Sherlock replied cryptically, turning back towards his team. He began talking quickly to Anderson, occasionally gesturing with his sword - foil, John corrected himself. Anderson nodded, for once keeping his mouth shut, and slipped on his mask, stepping onto the strip. He and his opponent saluted each other, the referee, and the audience, then dropped into crouches. With a gesture from the referee, the match began.

 

After a few steps back and forth, Anderson lunged, but found himself parried. Quickly retreating, he extended his arm, forcing his opponent back. Lunging again, he flicked his blade to the side and made contact, the scorelight on his side flashing red. The referee raised his hand, indicating a point had been scored. John glanced over to Sherlock, who was watching intently. Deciding it best not to disturb him, he turned back to the match. 

 

The duo stepped back and forth, blades clashing through the air. Eventually, three minutes passed, and they were called off, 4-2 for the Irish team. Sherlock stepped up to the strip, zipping up his lame and deftly hooking himself up to the cord that Anderson passed him. The boy with the Irish socks also stepped up, sneering slightly at Sherlock. The two saluted each other, and with the referee’s command, the match began anew.

 

Sherlock stood stock still against the other boy’s advance, bringing his blade to the center of his body slowly. He did nothing as his opponent stamped his foot, then feinted an attack.

 

“He’s testing him,” John said out loud in wonderment, earning him a shush from a nearby spectator. The boy took a step back, and then Sherlock struck, so fast that John barely saw it. Applause and murmurs of appreciation rang out as the two combatants returned to the center line, ready to fence once more. From then on, Sherlock’s opponent stood no chance. In a matter of seconds, the score stood 10-4, and Sherlock walked off the strip triumphantly, grabbing the towel and water bottle from John’s hands.

 

“That was...amazing,” John gulped, staring at Sherlock. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and a pink flush rose on his cheeks.

 

“Hardly worth the effort,” he said, panting slightly. “He kept his sword too far outside, it made him vulnerable to a disengage.”

 

“Yeah, whatever that means,” replied John, nodding vigorously. “Good job, Sherlock.”

 

“Oh, the game’s only just begun, John,” said Sherlock, grinning ferally.

 

The match proceeded, fencers stepping up and away like clockwork figurines. In the midst of it all was Sherlock, his blade flashing through the air. It was like a dance, John thought, a perilous dance that matched wits and physical skill in a way he could never have imagined. When he was not fighting, he stood watching with that peculiar intensity of his, zeroing in on the left-handed boy. They had yet to fight, but it was plain to see that he was heads above the rest of his teammates. He annihilated Anderson, not allowing even a single touch, and despite earning a yellow card for gloating, he remained arrogant. The scores increased on both sides, until it was tied, 40-40.

 

Soon enough, Sherlock was called up to fence once more.To John’s dismay, the left-handed boy took his place against Sherlock, smiling at John with cold, dead eyes. As he turned away, John noticed the name emblazoned on his lame:  Moriarty . He shivered as the boy slipped his mask on, lazily saluting Sherlock. 

 

“Hi Sherlock,” he singsonged through his mask. “Can’t wait to fence you.” Sherlock did not rise to the bait, saying nothing. The referee stepped back, raising his hands for the two boys to begin fencing. For a moment, they were both completely still, assessing each other. Then, Moriarty stepped back and placed his arms wide, leaving himself wide open. Unable to resist the opportunity, Sherlock lunged forward in a blur of white. At the last second, Moriarty brought his sword up, flicking away Sherlock’s and hitting him straight in the chest. John winced as the green light went on, signifying Moriarty’s point. 41-40.

 

Sherlock stepped to the center line, glaring murderously through his mask. Moriarty stepped back once more, and Sherlock followed him, flicking his blade side-to-side. For an instant, Moriarty hesitated, and Sherlock struck, tying the match once more. The room was completely silent except for the slight panting of the two combatants. For long pauses, they would stand stock-still, or inch back and forth, only to erupt into a flurry of movement that pushed them from one side of the strip to the other. The score remained tied, first Sherlock gaining the advantage, then Moriarty. With five seconds left on the clock, the score stood at 44 points each. One more point would win the match.

 

John could’ve heard a pin drop in the utter silence. He brought his hand to his forehead, finding it shaking with nervousness. He could only imagine how Sherlock felt. But the tall fencer remained still, the tip of his foil pointed at Moriarty’s throat. John knew that there would only be time for one last attack. Biting his lip with worry, he silently urged Sherlock on.

 

“ Allez ,” commanded the referee, raising his hand. Sherlock and Moriarty flew at each other, swords raised. In the flurry of motion, both lights went off, and the referee called a halt as the clock reached zero. John had no idea what had happened; the two fencers had been far too fast for him. The referee stepped forward, clearing his throat.

 

“Attack is parried, riposte arrives. Touch. Final score, 45-44.” He gestured to his left, where Sherlock was standing. Cheers erupted from their side, and John found himself swept up in the excitement. Giddy and shaking with adrenaline, he grabbed Sherlock in a bear hug and swung him around.

 

“You did it!” He exclaimed, before he realized what he had done. He set Sherlock on the ground, face reddening quickly. Clearing his throat, he stepped back, allowing Sherlock’s teammates to congratulate him. After accepting their pats on the back, he stepped forward, offering his hand to Moriarty. The other boy took it, twisting his left hand around so they could shake without removing gloves.

 

“This isn’t over, Sherlock Holmes,” he hissed, all the while maintaining a polite grin. “I will burn the heart out of you.”

 

“That would be remarkably ambitious of you,” Sherlock replied pleasantly. “Especially considering that you just lost.”

 

Moriarty’s face darkened to a deep purple, and a vein bulged in his neck, but he turned away without further comment, stalking off the strip. John watched him go, a deep pit forming in his stomach.

 

“I don’t like the sound of that, Sherlock,” he muttered, shifting from foot to foot.

  
“Neither do I, John,” replied Sherlock, eyes narrowed. “Neither do I.”


	8. After the Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John discuss the implication of Moriarty's threat.

John and Sherlock began the walk back to the dormitory, the latter shouldering his bag of gear with a grimace. For a few minutes, they were completely silent, but John could stand it no longer.

“What do you think he meant, ‘burn the heart out of you’?” He asked. The other boy was silent for a long moment. 

“I imagine it had to do with my complete and utter destruction, both on and off the strip.” Sherlock was surprisingly nonchalant for somebody who had just received a threat of that caliber and won a highly important fencing match.

“How can you act like that?” John protested. “He just threatened you, Sherlock, you should go to the police-”

“We both know that won’t happen,” Sherlock said idly. “And Moriarty knows that as well. The game is more important than our safety.”

“Your safety? Sherlock, that’s ridiculous! How can you say something like that?”

“Because it’s who we are,” Sherlock replied, ice in his voice. “We analyze, we deduct, and then we fight. Fencing is called physical chess for a reason, John, and now I have finally met an opponent worth playing.” A grin briefly dashed across his face. “Even if he is completely mad.”

John shook his head, sighing. There was no way he could get through to Sherlock with his current tactics, and so he dropped the subject. The rest of the walk was silent, until eventually they ended up in front of Sherlock’s door.

“I’ll just be off, then,” said John, clearing his throat, but Sherlock shook his head. 

“Come in,” he said, after a pause. “I’ll make some tea.” Unlocking the door, he held it open for John. As he entered, John’s eyes widened in amazement. 

The small room was packed to the brim with scientific paraphernalia, sprawling across his desk, chair, and bed alike. Sherlock swept away a series of notes, allowing space for John to sit on the bed. As he perched awkwardly between the sheets and beakers, Sherlock put the kettle on, bustling about. Suddenly, he stopped and looked down, noticing he was still clad in his fencing knickers and a tshirt. As if he was unaware of John’s presence, he removed the elastic straps and pulled off his sweat-stained shirt.

John nearly squeaked with a mix of surprise and shock. Sherlock’s chest was consistent with the rest of his appearance, pale and wiry. However, bruises of various sizes were beginning to blossom across his torso, and long red scratches ran up his arms and across his chest.

“Was that...was that from Moriarty?” He whispered, swallowing with difficulty.

“It’s often an underhanded tactic many fencers use,” Sherlock replied, his voice devoid of emotion. “If you can hit hard enough to disable them, it can make it easier to score.”

“But- you never showed any pain.” John was practically speechless. 

“Pain is a weakness, John,” Sherlock said, his voice still empty as he took two teacups out of a box. “If you show a weakness towards anyone or anything, it can be exploited. And it always will be.”

Something in John’s chest wrenched as the implication of Sherlock’s words set in. He doesn’t know, he thought. He thinks I’m rejecting his friendship. He floundered for a second, before reaching for a tube of antiseptic.

“Here,” he said gently, standing up. “I’m going to be a doctor. Let me take care of those scratches.” Unscrewing the cap, he took hold of Sherlock’s arm, extending it slightly so he could examine it. He rubbed the cream into the red lines, feeling Sherlock’s arm twitch slightly as the antiseptic stung. John did his best to ignore the proximity of the other boy, but he could still feel the heat radiating off Sherlock’s skin. He could feel the cold blue eyes on his head as he applied bandages to the worst cuts, smoothing them over with his fingers.

“There,” John breathed, hardly daring to look up. “All set.” Even though he had finished administering to Sherlock’s cuts, he found himself still holding Sherlock’s arm. He gently ran his fingers across it, then down onto Sherlock’s hand. It was surprisingly strong and calloused, but the fingers were still long and pale. John took each one in his hand, his breathing becoming shallower by the second.

“Just checking for sprains,” he said, gulping. Sherlock snorted wryly.

“I think I would’ve noticed,” he replied, but there was none of his usual venom in his tone. John looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. The normally icy blue was sparkling with a hint of mirth, and something else that John could not identify. Oh, sod it, John thought, I can’t take this any more. Intertwining his own fingers with Sherlock’s, he pulled him in and kissed him square on the mouth.

Sherlock’s eyes widened with surprise, and he tensed under John’s hand. For a split second, John thought he had made a terrible mistake, but then Sherlock tilted his head slightly, bringing his own hand to rest on John’s bicep. It was all the confirmation that John could’ve ever needed, and he felt like his heart would burst from excitement. He pulled back from the kiss, searching Sherlock’s face for a reaction. However, it was not what he expected.

“Mycroft put you up to this, didn’t he,” Sherlock said flatly, dragging a hand across his mouth. It wasn’t a question.

“What? How could you-” John sputtered, aghast at Sherlock’s suspicions.

“He showed you the picture,” Sherlock spat. “I know he did, don’t bother lying to me. ‘Oh, my poor younger brother just needs somebody to love him and all his problems will go away.’ Well I’m afraid you won’t get the money he no doubt promised you!” With each word, Sherlock grew louder and angrier, until he was flat-out shouting at John. “Now get out of my room!” He flung the door open, gesturing at the hallway. “OUT!” 

Tears started to form in John’s eyes, and he opened his mouth to protest, but thought the better of it. He stormed out of the room with a backward glance over his shoulder. He couldn’t have said whether it was sweat or tears on Sherlock’s cheek, but he was too hurt to care. 

When John saw Anthea through the spyhole on his door, he wasn’t surprised. He followed her wordlessly to the library, not sparing his surroundings a second glance. Mycroft was seated inside a different study corner this time, but John didn’t care. He sat across from the older boy, refusing to make eye contact. Before Mycroft could open his mouth, John spoke.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” He asked quietly, surprised at the evenness of his tone. “Talked to somebody Sherlock has interest in.”

“Naturally,” Mycroft sniffed. “It’s my job as the elder to look after him.”

“And you offered them money to pretend to be interested in him?”

“That was a misunderstanding,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “She had a-” But he never finished the sentence. John stood up from his seat and punched Mycroft square in the jaw. The older boy tumbled to the ground, instinctively bringing a hand up to his reddened cheek. 

“It’s not your bloody job,” John snarled, standing over Mycroft, “to keep tabs on everything Sherlock does. Maybe if you just let him live and be himself, he wouldn’t have gotten into all of those horrible messes!”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit too late for that,” said Mycroft, dabbing at his lip with a handkerchief. “Look on the phone.” John noticed a mobile sitting on the desk between them, recognizing it as Sherlock’s. A single text message had been sent to an unknown number. It read: Shall we duel at midnight? I know you’re still in town. Park Square. Bring your sword. -SH

“Oh God,” John breathed. “That’s-that’s to Moriarty, isn’t it?”

“So it would seem,” confirmed Mycroft. “I’d hoped if you came along for the ride, he might see your ulterior motives. I’ll meet you outside.” But John was already out the door. He took off into the night, stumbling over his own feet in his haste. He reached the curb, leaning over and panting. Hearing footsteps behind him, he straightened up, but before he could turn, something cracked across the back of his head, sending stars across his vision. The last thing he saw before he fell unconscious was the demented grin of a young man, creeping into the darkness like the Cheshire Cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnnnnn! Stay tuned to find out John and Sherlock's fate!


	9. Duel at Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up to find Moriarty setting up a deadly duel of wits and skill for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, if you told me in December that 8 months later I'd have 1500+ hits on this story, I'd never believe you. Thank you so much to everybody who reads, comments, or leaves kudos!

     John awoke slowly, shaking his head to clear it. His ears rang most unpleasantly, and his vision was blurred. _Common result of head trauma_ , he thought dimly, _possibly symptomatic of a concussion_. He raised his hands to probe the back of his forehead, only to find himself unable to. Looking down, John noticed he was tied to a chair, hands strapped to the armrests. In front of him stretched the converted warehouse where Sherlock had fenced this morning - _God, was it only this morning?_ John thought to himself. However, in the moonlight, it held a far more sinister and oppressive air, one that stifled his breathing and caused his pulse to race.

 

    A young man strolled into view, and John made no effort to muffle his gasp. It was Moriarty, dressed in his fencing whites and holding his mask at his side. Without the metal grating to obscure his face, John was able to see Sherlock’s rival clearly for the first time.

 

    Although Moriarty was conventionally attractive, there was something entirely off-putting about the nonchalant expression on the young Irishman’s face. Perhaps is was the deadness of his eyes, or the unnerving grin stretched across his mouth like plastic wrap over a skull. Regardless, John didn’t want to look at it any more than he had to, and turned his head away.

 

“Oh, don’t be like that, Johnny boy,” said Moriarty, pouting as he stepped in front of his captive. “We’re going to have lots of fun together.” He pulled up his jacket sleeve and inspected his watch.

 

“In...seven minutes, our dear friend Sherlock will step through that door, prepared to fight me head-on. Shame, isn’t it, what we do when our love is scorned?” He leaned forward, a sadistic grin on his face. “It makes us so... _rash_. Rash enough that he won’t be paying attention.” Moriarty wiggled his blade in front of John’s face, letting his eyes follow the tip. John winced in pain as the young man dragged it across his forehead. After a moment, his heart stopped in realization. Noticing John’s anguished expression, Moriarty chuckled.

 

“That’s right,” he said, touching a gloved finger to the tip of the foil. “Sherly’s in for a little surprise. Ah, but we can’t have you spoiling it!” John felt an old sock being shoved into his mouth, and gagged at the taste. He attempted to snap at Moriarty’s fingers, but missed. Struggling in desperation, John pulled at his bonds, but they were secure. After a tense minute, the door creaked, and Sherlock appeared.

 

    If anything, his face was whiter than his fencing gear, his hair and eyes providing a sharp contrast in the dim moonlight. His expression was as if carved in marble, set in its determination and anger. Then Sherlock noticed John, and the marble crumbled for a second. He quickly composed himself, but the damage had been done.

 

“I thought the idea was to make this purely between us,” Sherlock said coolly, addressing Moriarty.

 

“Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock,” sighed his opponent, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “What’s the fun in playing if there aren’t any stakes?”

 

“So what’s the catch?” Sherlock asked, a single eyebrow arched.

 

“I was so hoping you’d ask,” replied Moriarty smugly. “On that computer behind John are two files. One has my name on it, one yours. Each one contains a story about steroid use, wire meddling, and various other forms of cheating that were apparently employed to bring us to stardom. New evidence and all that. Whoever wins, decides which one gets sent out.”

 

“Fair enough,” said Sherlock, “but why involve John? He barely knows the sport.”

 

“Oh, I thought it might be fun for him to watch his true love suffer abject humiliation,” the Irishman said breezily, waving a hand in the air. Sherlock visibly flinched at the insult, losing his composure once more.

 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, stepping onto the fencing strip. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” tutted Moriarty, taking his place across from him. “Don’t you want to play anymore?” But the other boy remained silent as he slipped on his mask. John screamed urgently behind his gag, nodding at Moriarty’s weapon, but Sherlock ignored his muffled shouts.

 

    The two fencers hooked themselves up to the scoreboard, lights flashing in the dark. They took their position on each end of the strip, dropping into crouches. _En garde_ , John remembered, hysterical laughter bubbling up through his chest.

 

“Now, I don’t have to remind you that this is an honor system,” said Moriarty, “and believe it or not, I will play by the rules. Right of way still applies.” Sherlock nodded tersely, not dropping his guard for an instant. “Now then, _allez_!”

 

    Without further ado, Moriarty launched himself at Sherlock, unleashing a hurricane of blows at his opponent. Helpless, John could do nothing but watch as Sherlock seemed barely able to defend himself, parrying every blow in the nick of time. Amidst the onslaught, he slipped in a counterattack, setting off the green light as he made contact. Moriarty stepped back, slightly surprised.

 

“Oh, good job!” He exclaimed, “good job indeed! But let’s see if you can keep up!” Back and forth they went, in a cruel parody of a dance, until Sherlock parried a fraction of a second too late. He made a strangled noise of pain as Moriarty’s foil made contact with his chest, the sharpened tip piercing his jacket. The red light flashed. “One-all,” Moriarty sang, skipping back to the center line. “Do you like my little present, Sherlock?”

 

“A crude weapon for somebody who prides himself on being so sharp,” gritted out Sherlock, a hand pressed against his wound. When he removed it, a blossom of red stood out on his lame, reminding John of the poppies everybody wore in November. As Sherlock took his position once more, John finally managed to work the gag out of his mouth.

 

“Sherlock!” He gasped, “Sherlock, please, don’t!” The other boy turned to hear the source of the noise, and at that moment, Moriarty landed a blow on Sherlock’s leg.

 

“Oops, clumsy me,” he said, grinning through his mask. “Off target, that doesn’t count! Or does it?” Sherlock said nothing, but from the way his arm trembled he was clearly in pain.

 

“Quiet, John,” he shouted. “I don’t need distractions now.” Behind him, the clock continued to count down on the scoreboard. With an inhuman cry, Moriarty lunged once more, pushing Sherlock back to the edge of the strip. It was all John could do not to scream and cry, biting his lip so hard he could taste blood. Silently, he began to work at the duct tape that bound him to his chair, hoping he could at least free himself. Meanwhile, the battle raged on in front of him, silver flashing through the black and white of the moonlit strip. Sherlock managed to score twice more, but Moriarty had equalized the score and landed several crippling off-target hits.

 

“Sorry!” the Irishman called as he stabbed Sherlock in the hand, just behind the grip. “Used to fencing epee, and all that!” Sherlock cried aloud as he was forced to drop the foil, his hand hanging uselessly.

 

“SHERLOCK!” Shouted John, nearly tipping the chair over in his efforts to free himself. Despite the pain, Sherlock grinned as he removed his mask.

 

“Shall we up the stakes once more?” He said, parroting Moriarty’s words back at him.

 

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask,” replied Moriarty, clearly delighted. “You do know how to spoil a boy, Sherlock. And to think, John must’ve missed out so much…” Sherlock gripped his foil loosely in his right hand, struggling to keep it upright. Grinning, Moriarty stepped forward, ready for an easy kill. As he pressed his blade against Sherlock’s, the latter began to stagger back under the force of keeping the weapon away from his face.

 

“There’s...one thing...you forgot,” Sherlock growled as the tip approached his eye.

 

“And what is that?” Hissed Moriarty, forcing himself forward.

 

“If my right hand is injured, I can just use my left and take away your advantage!” Shouted Sherlock, tossing the foil to his other hand and spinning around. Before Moriarty could react, Sherlock lunged forward desperately, the sharpened tip grazing a long line on his cheek. However, the green light flashed once more, just as the timer buzzed. Sherlock had won.

 

    John sighed audibly with relief, deflating in his seat. In front of him, Moriarty turned away, his usual animation absent.

 

“It seems you’ve won,” he said. “Such a pity.”

 

“I beat you fair and square,” replied Sherlock. “Now let me distribute the file.”

 

“About that…” said Moriarty, feigning a guilty expression. In a flash, he was at John’s side, foil tip pressed against his neck. Sherlock moved to step forward, but Moriarty moved the blade warningly.

 

“Ah ah ah,” he singsonged. “You didn’t think I would take you on without a little insurance, did you?”

 

“Oh, come on,” said John, trying to hide his nervousness. “You’d kill over uni sport?”

 

“It’s not about sport anymore,” Sherlock deduced. “I made it personal when I beat Moriarty in front of everyone.”

 

“You humiliated me,” the Irishman hissed. “Fencing was my everything. I was ! And then you, Sherlock Holmes, with your pride and your-your fanciness, you took it all away from me!”

 

“You’ve gone mad,” said John, trying not to swallow as the blade grazed his Adam’s Apple. “It’s just a game.”

 

“It’s never just a game,” Sherlock said softly, looking straight at John. “It never was.”

 

“Right, enough of the heart-to-heart,” Moriarty interrupted, rolling his eyes. “Here’s the deal. Sherlock sends out the file with his name on it, or lover boy here gets it. Make a wrong move, and things will end badly.”

 

“And you have some sort of way of monitoring which one I send out, to stop me from doing that,” guessed Sherlock.

 

“Aren’t you clever?” Moriarty giggled. “Of course I do, but I want to see if you do it anyway. Can you do it, Sherlock? Risk the life of somebody you love for your own pride?”

 

     John sat in agony of indecision. At this angle, he could risk attacking Moriarty, but doing so would very well endanger his own life. He could do nothing but sit tight and hope Sherlock made a good choice. As he watched, the other boy walked over to the laptop. His finger hovered over the button, not touching anything. For a moment, his face was hard, but then, his shoulders slumped.

 

“No,” he said, voice catching. “I can’t.” He turned to look at John.

 

“John,” Sherlock said, “I know I haven’t done much to earn it, but do you trust me?” His eyes were wide with honesty, tinged slightly with fear. John examined Sherlock. Every fiber in his being screamed at him to stamp on Moriarty’s foot and make a break for it, but something in Sherlock’s gaze made him sit still.

 

“Yes,” he replied simply. Moriarty made a disgusted sound.

 

“Ugh, how sentimental. I never thought you'd be that _boring_. Guess that means I’ll have to let you go.”

 

But then Sherlock spoke once more. “Vatican cameos,” he breathed. Moriarty furrowed his brow in confusion, but John instinctively understood. He’d learned it from a book of military jargon he’d read a long time ago, and it meant duck and cover.

 

“Vatican cameos!” Sherlock shouted again, as he pressed the ‘send’ button. John leaned forward as far as he could, leaving a red stripe along his neck as the foil’s tip cut through the skin. Moriarty’s eyes widened in shock, and he turned around, only to be tackled to the ground in a flash of green and silver. The would-be killer groaned from the impact, opening his eyes to focus on the tip of an umbrella. Lestrade had him thoroughly pinned to the floor, with Mycroft waving his black umbrella in front of his face.

 

“Next time, try to be a bit more subtle,” the elder Holmes sniffed as he bent to free John. “I trust everything is in order?” He said more quietly. John nodded, breathing out hard through his nose.

 

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Everything’s ok.” He turned to look at Sherlock, who was typing furiously into the laptop. The taller boy looked up briefly, meeting John’s eyes for a mere moment before returning to his work.

  
“Everything’s fine,” John repeated, louder. He smiled slightly as he was finally free. They were bloodied, battered, and traumatized, but in the end, they had pulled through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's line about switching hands is my personal shout-out to the Princess Bride, because it's the movie that got me into fencing. Plus, it's just such a great movie.  
> On the subject of trivia, "Vatican cameos" really is used by the military. Where did they obtain it from - ACD's Sherlock Holmes novels, where it was used for the same purpose. How's that for a recursive loop?  
> Originally I had no idea where I was going when I started this story, and now we're here, with Mystrade saving the day. That's the creative writing process, I guess.


	10. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Moriarty's plan, John and Sherlock are left to sort out their lingering disputes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody!   
> Once again, classes are rearing their ugly head. I will do my best to continue to post on a regular basis, but as usual, I cannot make any promises.

Sherlock and John sat tiredly through the paramedic’s examination, their various injuries efficiently patched up as their eyes drooped. Coming down from their respective adrenaline rushes, their ordeal was beginning to take its toll on the two young men. Even now, as Moriarty was being led away by the police, John could barely muster the energy to return his enraged glare. 

 

Behind him, the paramedic was arguing with Mycroft over whether Sherlock should be taken to the hospital. Or rather, he was shouting, and Mycroft was brandishing his mobile threateningly. At his side, Lestrade was quietly giving a statement to another policeman, looking older than he should. 

 

How could a single college student be mad enough to cause all this chaos? John thought to himself. He looked to his left, where Sherlock was leaning against the ambulance wall. They had removed his shirt and cut away part of his trousers to treat his injuries, and despite the orange shock blanket, he was still shivering. John reached out tentatively, placing a hand on an uninjured spot on Sherlock’s arm.

 

“You...you saved my life,” he said, the words catching in his throat. 

 

“I suppose I did,” Sherlock replied, avoiding his gaze. “Although if it hadn’t been for my recklessness, you would’ve never been in danger.” John could practically feel the self-hatred radiating off the older boy.

 

“Sherlock,” he said, “look at me.” Sherlock deliberately refused eye contact once more. John drew a deep breath. “Yes, you did something incredibly crazy and borderline suicidal, but you and I both know that I pushed you to do it. And for that, I am truly sorry. I know that the scars you’ll get from this may never really go away, physically or emotionally. But the fact remains, you risked your life to save mine, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you for that.” Sherlock’s eyes widened, and flicked up to meet John’s. To his surprise, the normally hard blue eyes were completely open and vulnerable. Then, they moved away once more, darting across the flashing lights before them.

 

“For all your reputation as a cold-hearted ice king,” John continued, “tonight you, Sherlock Holmes, you did something  good . Not because anybody asked you to, not because there was a reward, but purely out of the kindness in your heart.”

 

“There was a reward,” muttered Sherlock, pulling the blanket around himself. His throat worked, trying to give voice to the complex emotions bubbling just beneath the surface.

 

“Oh, sod the whole thing with Moriarty,” John said with vehemence and no small amount of exasperation.

 

Sherlock replied, “The reward wasn’t Moriarty.” He met John’s eyes once more, this time holding their gaze. “It was you, safe and alive.”

 

John suddenly felt like he might faint. Even after all of the lecturing Mycroft had given him, he still had no idea how Sherlock had truly felt about him. And now, hearing those words come from his mouth, John felt like his insides had been tied to balloons and allowed to drift away. He rubbed a hand across his face, breathing out hard. Misunderstanding his gesture, Sherlock pulled away.

 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, “I shouldn’t have-”

 

“No, no,” John replied, voice breathy. “It’s just - I can’t believe I’ve waited that long to hear you say that.”

 

And then Sherlock laughed, a proper deep laugh that was completely incongruous to the situation. John couldn’t help but join in, practically collapsing in a fit of giggles. All of the night’s tension drained out of them as they continued to laugh, the sheer incredulity of recent events suddenly becoming enormously funny.

 

“You fought a  duel ,” wheezed John, “an actual  duel .”

 

“And you were all trussed up like a turkey,” Sherlock giggled, wiping tears of mirth away.

 

“And - and then you said,  Do you trust me, John? ” John imitated Sherlock’s deeper voice, putting on an expression of mock seriousness.

 

“I suppose it was a good thing you did,” replied Sherlock, sobering up.

 

“Yes, but how did you know I knew what ‘Vatican Cameos’ meant?”

 

Sherlock simply said, “I didn’t.”

 

While John sat frozen in shock, Mycroft wandered over, having finished tormenting the poor paramedic.

 

“If you two are done making fools of yourselves,” he said coolly, “you’re free to go back to your rooms, provided you stop by the hospital tomorrow to make sure your wounds are healing.” As if on cue, a sleek black car pulled up on the curb, the back door opening. Mycroft and Lestrade entered, the latter gesturing for Sherlock and John to follow. With a nod to the paramedics, they piled in, Sherlock still draped in his blanket.

 

The ride back to the university was short and quiet, Sherlock and John exiting the car together.

 

“I could get used to being chauffeured everywhere,” observed John with a yawn. Sherlock grunted in response, rubbing his eyes. They walked through the dormitory in silence, swerving to avoid a gaggle of drunk upperclassmen but otherwise left alone. When they reached Sherlock’s door, they stopped outside.

 

“I never did make that tea,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.

 

“I think a cuppa would be best for everybody,” replied John. Together, they entered the room, John busying himself with setting the kettle. Meanwhile, Sherlock scrolled through his mobile, making an intrigued noise.

 

John asked, “What is it?”

 

“It’s an email,” Sherlock replied. “The sender’s blocked, and there’s no content, just an attachment.”

 

“No, don’t open-”

 

But Sherlock had already clicked on it. The screen was black, and a microphone crackled to life. Then, John’s blood ran cold.

 

“Hi, Sherlock,” Moriarty crooned through the speakers. “Did you miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm starting to realize that I have a habit of shortening chapters for the purpose of making cliffhangers. Does this annoy anybody? Please let me know.


	11. The Aftermath, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John deal with the implications of Moriarty's threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So real life has been particularly nasty, have some fluff to make up for it!

John and Sherlock froze as the Irish voice practically oozed through the speakers, slightly amplified by Sherlock’s cupped hand.

“I can just imagine the looks on your faces,” the recording said, chuckling darkly. “I made this recording on the off chance I lost, and you decided to send out the file with my name on it.” John glanced at Sherlock, the light from the phone screen reflecting in his eyes.  
“Now of course, you probably tried to to take down the virus that switched out the files, and because you think you’re so clever, you probably succeeded at taking down most of it. But I still owe you a fall.”

Sherlock flinched, his breath starting to come quicker. 

“So, here’s the deal,” Moriarty singsonged. “You may have gotten me, my file didn’t just have my story, it had yours. Which, of course, you would’ve known, but you didn’t bother to read them, did you?”

John put his hand over his mouth. He felt actually, physically sick. How could one man, practically a boy, go this mad?

“Now both of them are out there,” hissed Moriarty through the speaker. “So I just have one question for you, Sherlock Holmes. Are you prepared to burn?”

With a click, the recording ended, the sudden absence of noise hanging in the air like a ghost.

“We have to go to the police,” John said finally, breaking the ominous silence. 

“No,” Sherlock replied, giving John an exasperated look. “For God’s sake, John, use your brain. If we go to the police saying that a currently incarcerated uni student has just unleashed damning false information on both me and himself in order to seek revenge, do you think they’d believe us?”

John exhaled. “No, they wouldn’t,” he said, frustration growing in his voice.

“Exactly,” confirmed Sherlock, beginning to pace. “I’ll need to extend some feelers into the underground network, if we don’t wait long we can-”

“What - why not just ask Mycroft?” John asked, brows furrowing. “He helped us tonight, surely he can help us again-”

“Fieldwork is not Mycroft’s milieu,” replied Sherlock, still pacing. “Now that he’s exposed himself to Moriarty, he’ll retreat. He won’t help us again, not directly.”

John sat down hard, fists clenched. “Christ, Sherlock,” he breathed. “What are we going to do?”

“No doubt my file contains the more lurid details of my past addiction,” the taller boy muttered. “While currently unsubstantiated, it would be a simple matter for any journalist to poke around and discover something. So, we give Moriarty what he wants.”

“I must not have heard you right there,” said John, disbelief plain in his tone. “It sounded like you said you want to help Moriarty.”

“Oh, no,” replied Sherlock, a positively evil grin spreading across his face. “If we go directly to the source, tell the newspapers about my checkered past, how I’ve reformed, anything that Moriarty’s said will become irrelevant.”

“But it’ll still be out there,” John protested. “He’ll still be out there.”

“Moriarty’s facing charges of battery, kidnapping, and extortion. Even if his bail is posted, he’s garnered enough attention that he won’t be returning here any time soon.”

John stood up angrily, teacup clattering to the floor beside him. “For God’s sake, Sherlock!” he cried. “How are you so...so cold! So uncaring! We almost died, Sherlock! You almost died! You can keep the ‘Mr. Ice’ facade up all you want, but did you ever, did you ever consider that I might care what happened to you?!”

Sherlock froze on the spot, eyes downcast. His lips moved soundlessly for a moment, eyes flicking back and forth.

“After everything I’ve said, Sherlock, after everything I’ve done - did you still really believe that I didn’t care about you?” John asked softly, stepping towards Sherlock. The other boy continued to avoid his gaze, the action telling John all he needed to know. 

“Sherlock,” he said, stepping closer, “from the moment I saw you, at club fair, I knew you - you were something special, different from anybody else. That you were brilliant, absolutely brilliant.” Yet Sherlock still did not look at him.

“Not because you were the best fencer, or - or because of your classes, or anything like that,” John continued. “But because you just - were. Like a star. Burning yourself up just to shine more than everybody else, in the hope that somebody would see you for what you are.” He reached out for Sherlock’s hand, positioning himself so that he was directly facing the taller boy.  
“You don’t have to burn yourself up any more,” John whispered, gently placing a hand on Sherlock’s face, running his thumb below the bandage on his cheek. “I can see you, Sherlock Holmes.”  
When Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, there was a curious shame in them. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, “I’m sorry if I made you think-”

“No, Sherlock,” John cut him off. “You didn’t make me think anything. In fact, I’m not sure I think at all when I’m around you.”

Sherlock snorted. “Not possible.”

“But it is,” insisted John. “It is when you’re-” he hesitated. Did he love Sherlock? John could feel his eyes on him, calculating, searching for any sign that this was all a lie. It didn’t bother him, he realized, having all of his layers peeled away, standing metaphorically bare before Sherlock. He welcomed it with open arms, the sandblasting gaze that caused so many people tremble in fear.

“-when you’re in love,” he finished. Sherlock’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ of surprise, but before he could turn away, John grabbed his arm.

“Sherlock,” he said, resolution sharper than glass in his voice. “Look at me, really look at me. Am I lying?” He could feel the eyes sweeping his body language, finger on his wrist to measure his pulse, ears open to the inflection of his voice. With every fiber of his being, Sherlock was looking, grasping for any hope. John only hoped he had cast a lifeline in the right direction.  
Sherlock’s throat worked, eyes flicking across John’s face. 

“No,” he whispered, voice breaking. “No, you’re not.” There was amazement in his voice, but such raw relief that John’s heart leapt into his mouth.

“No I’m not,” he echoed, breaking into a smile. “This isn’t your brother, this isn’t Moriarty, this is me talking. John Watson. And I won’t ever stop being me.”

Sherlock smiled then, a genuine smile, despite the fact that he was now decidedly misty-eyed. If he had been a star to John then, now he was a supernova, burning so brightly that he was practically blinded. He wasn’t sure who started the kiss, only that they were kissing, and even with his eyes closed, Sherlock was still blinding.

They could have stayed like that for hours, except John was forced to break away, yawning hugely.

“Sorry,” he muttered, a slight blush spreading across his cheeks. 

“No, it’s alright,” Sherlock replied, panting. “You should get some sleep, John.” Indeed, it was nearly 2 in the morning, and he was exhausted from the night’s events. Sherlock awkwardly brushed away the papers on his bed, gesturing for John to get in.

“What about you, Sherlock?” John asked, eyeing the mattress. 

“I’ll be fine,” he replied. “Caffeine.” However, he was clearly exhausted.

John frowned. “No, Sherlock, you need to rest. Even you have to sleep once in a while.”  
Sherlock looked like he was about to argue, but curled up sideways on his chair, legs hanging off the side.

“Well, I meant, er-” John scooted to the far edge of the bed. “We could, um, share? I mean, you’re so skinny, and-” 

Almost instantly, Sherlock was beside him in the bed, a hair’s breadth away from John, but not yet touching him. Noticing his hesitation, John stayed still, letting Sherlock dictate the course of events. Eventually, Sherlock flipped over so that the two boys were back to back, but leaned back slightly so they touched. With the even movement at his side, John was instantly soothed, and with no sound but their breathing, quickly fell asleep.


	12. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to a final decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, all!

When John awoke the next morning, Sherlock was already changing, buttoning up a crisp blue shirt over his various bandages. John sat up, stretching hard and wincing as he felt his own wounds tugging at his skin. Rubbing his eyes, he yawned slightly, then stood up.

 

“What’s going on?” John mumbled as he made his way towards Sherlock’s kettle, hoping for a morning cup of tea to wake him up. 

 

“We’re going to the newspaper,” Sherlock replied crisply, setting a cup in front of the shorter boy. John stared at him, trying to decipher the fencer’s thought process as the tea grew cold in front of him.

 

“We’re doing what?” he finally asked, not quite sure he’d heard correctly.

 

Sherlock took a gulp of his own tea. “With Moriarty’s information already released, there’s nothing we can do to redact it. Any disavowance I make will just serve to further Moriarty’s cause. So we get in ahead of it, reveal all of the information ourselves.”

 

“ What? ” Now John was sure he was going deaf. “So - so that’s it? You’re just going to let Moriarty win?”

 

“Not at all,” Sherlock replied, his expression calculatedly blank as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. “He can’t win if I choose this. I’ll admit to my mistakes, to being too proud to know when to quit. But with Moriarty’s kidnapping, everything will be dismissed as the ramblings of a traumatized boy, too much in shock to know what he’s saying.”

 

John gaped in realization. “So when they get Moriarty’s file, it’ll be old news. Nobody’s going to care, even if it’s true.” Sherlock nodded, eyes flicking to the floor. 

 

“But how can you do that?” John cried, standing upright. “You’ll probably be expelled, suspended at the very least - be logical, Sherlock. There’s got to be some other way!”

 

“It’s not the smart thing to do,” Sherlock said, nodding in agreement. “But it’s the-”

 

“The right thing?!” John interrupted, throwing his hands into the air. “Since when did  Sherlock Holmes care about doing the  right thing !”

 

Silence hung in the air, rife with tension. “Since last night,” Sherlock said, finally breaking the pause. “Since I met you.” John’s first instinct was to roll his eyes and make a remark about how cheesy that line was, but the sincerity in Sherlock’s eyes stopped him. Instead, he pulled the fencer close, kissing him. Sherlock smiled into the kiss, and when he broke away, there was a new light to his eyes that John had not expected to see.

 

“Come along then, John,” Sherlock said, slinging his black coat over his shoulder. “We need to go find a ‘Miss Kitty Riley’.”

 

Kitty Riley turned out to be a redheaded junior, popping her gum and typing furiously in a corner of the library. She barely looked up from her laptop as Sherlock and John entered, eyes darting back to the backlit screen.

 

“Not interested,” she drawled, fingers hammering on the keyboard.

 

“Oh, but you will be,” Sherlock replied. At the sound of his voice, Kitty looked up, giving him an appreciative once-over. She then noticed John, her eyes widening slightly, but she quickly composed herself.

 

“Moran’s the LGBT section editor,” she said. “Now if you’ll excuse me…” Exasperated, Sherlock slammed the laptop shut, earning a startled shriek from Kitty.

 

“I am here to tell you about my former drug use and scandal within the fencing team, and let me assure you, it is somewhat more sensationalist than a piece on vandalism of school fences!” Sherlock snarled. John couldn’t be sure if it was the use of the words “drug” and “scandal”, or Sherlock’s angry tone, but Kitty pulled a notepad seemingly out of nowhere and crossed her legs, now paying rapt attention.

 

“Well then,” she said, a smirk growing on her face. “Do tell.”

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, sitting down across from Kitty. John sat beside him, reaching for his hand under the table. To his surprise, Sherlock took it, and John squeezed Sherlock’s hand reassuringly. It was the first time he had seen Sherlock look so hesitant, so unsure of himself. But then, Sherlock began to speak, haltingly, while John and Kitty listened.

 

As he heard stories of drug use, sleeping in abandoned buildings next to felons, blind eyes turned to doping scandals, John’s stomach churned. However, he forced himself not to react, even as Kitty tutted, gasped, and made appropriate listening noises as she scribbled down all of the lurid details. It pained him so to see Sherlock’s last secrets spilled, and there was absolutely no doubt that the other boy felt the same way, but he persevered, even as his voice wavered. 

 

Minute after minute passed, and after what felt like an eternity, Sherlock fell silent, the only sound Kitty’s pen scratching against the paper. 

 

“What I mean to say is…” Sherlock breathed out hard. “I know I’ve made mistakes. More than I can count. And I cannot fix them, but from now on,” he turned to look directly at John, “I am going to do my best not to make any more.”

 

“Oh, and also James Moriarty tried to kill us,” John interjected. “That’s M-O-R-I-”

 

“Is that enough for you, Miss Riley?” Sherlock asked smoothly, but the damage was already done. She scribbled furiously in her notebook, staring intently at John.

 

“Was that what those police cars were doing here?” she asked, questions coming rapid-fire. “Is he a student? How did he try to do it?” John answered as best he could, while Sherlock remained silent. Surprisingly, he never once shot John a glare, letting him do the talking instead. In fact, he nearly seemed pleased. But that was nothing in comparison to Kitty, who was wearing a smirk that could only be called shit-eating. 

 

“Thank you very much, boys,” she said, closing her notebook with a wolfish grin. The three students stood up and left, John and Sherlock going one way, Kitty the other. As they walked, Sherlock smiled slightly, a laugh twitching at his lips. John looked at him questioningly, struggling to read his companion’s thought process. Suddenly, it hit him out of the blue.

 

“You knew I was going to tell Kitty about Moriarty,” he said accusingly, but he was still impressed. “Bloody hell, you played her like a violin! And me!”

 

Sherlock laughed then, a full, clear laugh that made his shoulders shake. “Yes, I suppose I did,” he said. “Old habits and all that.”

 

“So what do we do now?” John asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Moriarty’s gone, we got in with Kitty...what do we do now?”

  
“Now, John?” Sherlock replied, lifting his face to the sky. “Now, we wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys want more?


	13. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John deal with their exams and Moriarty's upcoming trial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I guess this story's been going for a year now. Many, many thanks to those of you who've stuck through my chronic tardiness issues and left comments and/or kudos. And now, a bit of fluff for your dedication.

The rest of the semester passed with little incident, and despite the hasty looks and sensationalized whispers that were thrown Sherlock’s way, life was very much the same. Moriarty had been released on bail, but faced expulsion and was banned from competitive fencing. His trial wouldn’t happen until after the holidays, but as Christmas rapidly approached, John found himself beginning to worry. 

 

“Suppose they plead insanity,” he hissed to Sherlock while they were studying together.

 

“No,” replied Sherlock, not looking up from his chemistry textbook. “For a young adult, they’ll argue it would destroy any future he may have. His defense will be that it was a crime of passion, unplanned and sparked by rage.”

 

John rolled his eyes. “But it wasn’t,” he protested, voice raising slightly. A few other students gave him stern looks before diving back into their papers. “We’re going to have to testify against him, you know.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock said, still unconcerned.

 

John closed his book with a thud. “How can you stand to see him?” He asked, starting to simmer. “After what he did to us? To  _ you _ ?”

 

“Because no sane jury is going to find him innocent,” pointed out Sherlock. “His defense is ultimately irrelevant due to the concrete evidence demonstrating his guilt. Since he’s being tried as an adult, his crime will carry a multiple-year sentence, and it’s highly unlikely we’ll ever see him again.”

 

John snorted. “ ‘Highly unlikely’ is still too much of a chance for me.” But Sherlock had already turned back to his studies, scribbling down a series of complicated-looking diagrams in his notebook.

 

“Cup of tea,” he said absent-mindedly. 

 

John was taken completely aback. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You should have a cup of tea,” Sherlock clarified, adding a series of arrows to his diagram. “Keep calm and carry on, and all that.”

 

“I  _ am _ calm,” John said, exasperated, before sighing. He put his head on his textbook in defeat. 

 

“You know, after what you’ve been through, I’m sure that you’d be granted an extension,” observed Sherlock. 

 

John frowned. “I don’t want an extension,” he said. “I just want this to be over.”

 

“There’s no shame in it,” Sherlock continued. “Trauma can have adverse effects on the brain, to the point where-”

 

“I  _ know _ that, Sherlock,” John interjected through gritted teeth. “I am trying to become a doctor here.”

 

Sherlock nodded slightly. “Right, you did say that,” he said. “Apologies.”

 

“No wor- did you just  _ apologize _ , Sherlock?”

 

“Hm?” Sherlock’s frantic writing paused. “Yes, I suppose I did.” He resumed writing while John gaped at him.

 

“You  _ never _ apologize,” John pointed out. “Even when you’re being an insufferable git, you don’t apologize.”

 

Sherlock frowned slightly. “I’m not an insufferable git.” John exhaled in a half-laugh.

 

“Only sometimes,” he said fondly. Sherlock looked up to meet John’s eyes, smiling himself.

 

“There are worse things one could be,” observed Sherlock. “I’ll settle for being myself.” John reached across the table.

 

“I wouldn’t want anything less,” he replied, stroking Sherlock’s pale knuckles. Sherlock harrumphed slightly, but he was still smiling. 

  
“Get back to work, John,” he said, a teasing lilt to his tone. “Those equations won’t solve themselves.” John good-naturedly rolled his eyes before re-opening his textbook. Suddenly, Moriarty was a mere afterthought, and the world’s biggest danger was his calculus exam.


	14. Alekhine's Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock both learn something new from each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again all. Unfortunately, it's just a short chapter again, as my classes are taking a huge toll on my energy and free time. As such, I'm calling an indefinite hiatus until the end of April. I will post a chapter if I have time to write one, but there will be no more regularly scheduled updates. :( I know you have all been extremely patient and I appreciate your comments and kudos immensely, but ultimately, classes have priority over writing. Thank you all very much once more, and I hope to see you soon!

“Sherlock, you don’t have to do this,” John said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

Sherlock merely snorted. “If I wasn’t interested, I would have made it loudly and abundantly clear,” he countered. 

“It’s just - I didn’t expect you to do this for me.” John tripped over his words slightly. “I mean, I had no idea you would even say yes.”

“Don’t be so sure of yourself next time, John,” replied Sherlock, satisfaction edging its way into his voice. On the chessboard, he moved his bishop forward. “Mate in three.”

John groaned in frustration, bringing a fist down onto the table and making the pieces jump. “Damn it, Sherlock! The idea of teaching somebody is that you actually show them how to play before you completely destroy them!”

“I did teach you,” replied the undisturbed Sherlock. “You lasted four moves more than last game, and even if you didn’t know it, you used Alekhine's gun.” He leaned forward over the board, rearranging the pieces to demonstrate. “Give yourself some more credit, John,” he chided gently.

Despite his initial frustration, John grudgingly agreed with Sherlock. He had lasted longer than last game, and the game before that. Baby steps, he reminded himself, sweeping his pieces back to his side of the board.

“What do you say then,” he asked. “One more game?”

“One more,” Sherlock replied, setting his queen back onto the board. “The game, dear John, is on.”


	15. 24 Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 24 hours before Moriarty's trial, John and Sherlock receive game-changing news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I'm back! Once again, thank you for waiting while I sorted out the sad excuse that is my life and get over my pesky writer's block. Hopefully updates can get more regular again!

John swallowed hard as he dried off his face, staring at his reflection in the speckled mirror. The bags under his eyes were thicker than normal, a result of stressful exams and the looming trial date. As he dressed, John eyed the dress shirt hanging off his closet door in preparation for tomorrow. In less than 24 hours, he would be taking the witness stand to testify against Moriarty in what was rapidly becoming a far more sensational trial than he would’ve liked. Mycroft had been able to keep John and Sherlock’s name out of the presses, but all it would take was one slip and his face would be plastered across the front page.

 

John’s musings were interrupted by his door opening, revealing a windswept Sherlock wrapped in his scarf and grumpily clutching a thermos. 

 

“I don’t remember giving you a key,” John observed as Sherlock dumped his coat over John’s chair. He’d grown accustomed to Sherlock showing up at all hours of the day, but until now he’s always knocked.

 

“Made one,” came the offhand reply. “Tea?” John reached for the thermos, only to pause with his hand outstretched. 

 

“...Why?”

 

“I needed access to my notes,” Sherlock said, as if it was obvious. John shook his head in bewilderment.

 

“I would’ve given you one,” he replied. Sherlock made a ‘hmf’ noise, but John could tell he was pleased. Sherlock’s phone bleeped, and he pulled it out to answer it. His brow furrowed, then raised in shock. With a slight tremor in his hand, Sherlock stowed the phone back in his pocket before exhaling deeply.

 

“What is it?” John asked, concern in his tone as he noted Sherlock’s rare display of emotion.

  
“That was Mycroft,” Sherlock said, voice uncharacteristically puzzled. “Anderson’s been kidnapped.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that was pathetically short, but hopefully things should start rolling again. Stay tuned!


	16. The Game Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock devise a plan to rescue Anderson, with a little extra help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we're back! I wanted to post this yesterday, but my internet was less than cooperative.

“What the hell do you mean, Anderson’s been kidnapped?” John asked incredulously. “Who would even want to kidnap Anderson?” From his experience, the boy was obnoxious at best. He wasn’t sure how Sally could tolerate him, much less date him.

“Well, the police haven’t figured it out yet,” Sherlock replied, methodically pacing the floor. “As far as they’re concerned, he’s probably hungover at a friend’s house, but Mycroft’s sources say he hasn’t been seen since late last night.”

John opened his mouth to question why a university student even had sources, but thought the better of it. “Which brings me back to my first point, why would anyone kidnap Anderson?”

“It’s a test.” Sherlock placed his hands together and brought them to his mouth. “They want to see how far I can go, if I can resist the temptation.”

“But the trial’s tomorrow!” John interjected. “If we go after Anderson, who knows where we’ll end up. We’re the key witnesses; if we’re not there, a mistrial will be called!”

Sherlock nodded. “Quite right, John. Fortunately, I have faith that Mycroft and Lestrade can stall for time, as their testimonies will also prove invaluable to the case. I’m sure my brother can find it in him to be more vague than usual.” He moved towards the door, only for John to block him.

“Sherlock, wait.” John swallowed hard, regretting the words he was about to say. “We need to talk.”

“About what? We already have a plan.”

“I mean about…this.” John gestured vaguely at Sherlock. Now was the worst time possible to have this conversation, but at some point he needed to stand up for himself. “Once we finish with the trial and Anderson, you have to promise me, no more adventures. This is not how I expected my uni years to go, and unlike some of us, I’m no genius. I need to study-my scholarships depend on them. I just can’t lead two lives at once, Sherlock. Being dragged off at God knows what hour to clandestine meetings, being held at swordpoint – frankly, the appeal is wearing thin.” John took a deep breath, nodding slightly. “And I want to be able to spend time with you, Sherlock. You’re my boyfriend, for God’s sake. But typical dates generally don’t involve catching a crazed student with a sword!”

Sherlock tilted his head in acknowledgment, but the corners of his mouth had turned down slightly. “You’re right,” he offered. “I never stopped to ask if you wanted to be a part of this. But this,” he gestured at his ever-present trenchcoat, “This is my life, John. And I’m sorry that it’s not what you expected. You do deserve better, and you have every right to say so.” Sherlock placed his hands on John’s shoulders, starting deep into his eyes. 

“I can see many things, John, but what the future holds is one of them. But I promise to you right now, once this is over, there will be no more wild adventures if that’s what you want.”

John pulled Sherlock into a deep hug, closing his eyes as emotions threatened to overwhelm him.

“You have no idea how much this means to me,” he whispered, Sherlock’s curls tickling his nose.

“I think I do,” Sherlock wryly replied, but affection was clear in his voice. “Now let’s go find Anderson.”

 

“Anderson can’t have been taken more than a day away,” Sherlock thought aloud, pacing back and forth. “They want to hold him just out of reach, just enough to make us choose between him and Moriarty.”

“So what do we do?” John asked, gnawing his lip.

“We don’t go.”

“What?” John wasn’t sure that he had heard Sherlock correctly. “How can we find him if we don’t go?”

“Myself, you, Mycroft, and Lestrade are all required to testify within the next two days, so we find somebody to do the legwork for us. Who do you trust?”

“Stamford,” was John’s immediate reply. “Stamford and Molly.” Sherlock mulled it over, clearly considering their value.

“I suppose we should send Donovan along,” he mused. “Her only redeeming quality seems to be her loyalty to Anderson, and she is studying law enforcement. With our other two options being medical students, we may need someone capable of irrational thought.” Sherlock nodded crisply. “They’ll have to do. See if you can get Stamford and Molly to come willingly, I’ll convince Donovan.”   
He whipped out his phone and began texting, thumbs flying over the touchscreen. John also pulled his out, sending a group message to Stamford and Molly. Sherlock and I need your help, he typed. Anderson’s gone missing, and we need to find him. Meet @ my room in 1 hr.

On my way, came Molly’s immediate reply. A few minutes later, Stamford added no prmises but will try. 

“They’re coming,” John reported, a smile crossing his face as he looked up from his phone. Sherlock flopped onto John’s bed, steepling his fingers as he contemplated his next move.  
“We’ll need three pairs of earbuds with built-in microphones,” he started. “And the location trackers enabled on everyone’s mobile. That will give us as close to a live feed as we can get without proper cameras.”

“But how will we know where to look?” interjected John. “We have no idea where he could’ve gone.”

“I’ll search his room,” Sherlock replied. “He would’ve gone missing from there – if there are any signs of a struggle, we’ll find them. Perhaps he even left us a clue.”

“A clue?” John repeated skeptically.

“Anderson’s studying forensic science. If he’s lucky, it may have occurred to him to leave a trail not easily detectable to the naked eye.”

“You’re putting a lot of faith in Anderson,” John noted. 

“So I am.” Sherlock shrugged. “Of course, this is Anderson we’re talking about, so he probably thinks “help me” written in his own blood is subtle.”

John snorted, unable to help but laugh at Sherlock’s continued tirade against the other fencer. “So now what?” he asked, pushing himself off his chair.

“Now, we need to search his room. Come along, John!” Sherlock responded, springing off John’s bed with a morbid vigor. 

“I suppose the game is on?” John snarked, striding after Sherlock.

“Oh it is, my dear John Watson.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled with resolve. “It is indeed.”


	17. Calling in a favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John examine Anderson's room for clues.

Sherlock and John made their way down the corridor to Anderson’s room, pausing in front of the wooden door. Sherlock crouched, pulling out a black leather bag from a pocket, and began to fiddle with the lock.

 

“We don’t have time for this!” John hissed, eyes flitting around the hallway. Sherlock snorted in response, still focused on picking the lock. Suddenly, John had an idea, and bodily shoved Sherlock away from the door. Grabbing his own key and one of Sherlock’s picks, he held the lock open with the pick and rapidly moved the key back and forth. With a click, the door unlocked, and Sherlock looked up, eyebrows raised in a “not bad” expression.

 

“Harry taught me,” John said with a shrug. While he didn’t usually approve of the things his sister did, it occasionally came in handy when he found himself in a pinch. Sherlock carefully pushed the door open, stepping around the very edge of the room as John followed suit.

 

The room was no messier than John’s, typical of a student. As Sherlock had said, there was no sign of a break in. Had John not known Anderson was missing, he would think the other fencer had just stepped out of the room for a minute. However, Sherlock seemed to think otherwise. He crouched down, pressing his cheek to the ground and running a finger across the floor.

 

“What do you see, John?” Sherlock asked, raising the finger in question.

 

“Um…nothing.”

 

“Precisely!” Sherlock straightened up. “The floor of your room has dust, hair, snack crumbs-” John glared at him, and Sherlock broke off his list.

 

“The point is, this floor is clean. _Impressively_ clean. Somebody cleaned it, then made a mess again to create the impression of it being undisturbed.”

 

“Maybe Anderson just cleaned it? Trying to impress Sally?” John asked. “After all, there is a vacuum you can borrow.”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “Sally’s even more of a slob than Anderson.” His nose wrinkled in distaste. “No, somebody spilled something here while they were kidnapping Anderson, then cleaned it up.” He ran back to his room, then came back, clutching a vial of clear liquid.

 

“As soon as I heard Anderson was missing, I borrowed this from the chemistry lab,” Sherlock explained. “It’s silver nitrate.” Using a dropper, he scattered the liquid across the floor. Most of it remained clear, but near Anderson’s bed, it turned white.

 

“Just as I suspected,” Sherlock said. “He’s been chloroformed.” Turning on his heel, Sherlock began to tick clues off on his fingers.

 

“Our suspect is most likely male, some degree of professionalism,” he listed. “Has access to chloroform, younger in appearance, and hair significantly different from Anderson and Sally’s – so blonde, most likely.”

 

“What about a redhead?”

 

“Balance of probability, dear John.” Sherlock steepled his fingers. “Anderson was on his bed when the kidnapper went after him, spilling some chloroform in the process. He was then drugged, and the kidnapper dragged him out on the pretense of helping a drunk friend home. It would look perfectly normal.”

 

“That’s all very well and good, but we still don’t know where they went,” John pointed out.

 

“No, and that’s where you come in.”

 

“Me?” John was understandably confused.

 

“This person is an associate of Moriarty’s, deeply trusted to carry out his orders even when he himself is incapacitated,” Sherlock responded. “They might have been at the fencing match, where this mess started.”

 

John nodded, breathing out hard. “And you want me to remember.”

 

“You’d be surprised what the human brain can retain,” Sherlock said. “All you need to do is think, John.”

 

John closed his eyes and thought back to the fencing match, so many months ago. He remembered how awestruck he’d been by Sherlock’s bladework, the thin metal swords dancing in the light.

 

“Focus, John.” Dimly, John felt cool pressure on his temples as Sherlock pressed his hands to John’s head encouragingly. “Picture the crowd; the sights, the noise, the smells. Let yourself be there.”

 

Energy drinks and sweat. Buzzers going off, the murmur of the crowd, the clash of blades. Gradually, faces resolved themselves, and there, over Moriarty’s shoulder, John saw their kidnapper.

 

She had short blonde hair, with large eyes and a thin face. But she stood confidently behind Moriarty, chin tilted upwards as if to dare John to make a move. Her eyes were cool and calculated, and even in memory, it made him shiver.

 

“It’s a girl,” John said, opening his eyes with surprise. “I’m sure of it.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but John could see his brain working over this new piece of the puzzle.

 

“I need to talk to one of my contacts,” he said simply. “You meet with Donovan, Molly, and Stamford.” So saying, he rushed out of the room, pulling his phone out of his hand. John let him go, glancing back to where Sherlock was pacing back and forth, waiting for the person on the other end to pick up. John had never seen him look this nervous, even before he had faced Moriarty. Deciding to give Sherlock his privacy, John made a quick retreat to his room.

 

“ _Hello Sherlock,_ ” A woman’s voice purred through the receiver, as Sherlock passed a hand over his face.

 

“Irene, I need a favor.” The words clearly pained him but he had no choice.

 

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Irene’s voice turned from sultry to business-like, but still carried a hint of playfulness. “What is it this time, Sherly-curls?”

 

“I told you not to call me that,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “I’m looking for a girl. Connections to James Moriarty. Blonde hair, big eyes, possibly a fencer.”

 

“You do have a type,” Irene giggled, and Sherlock heard a clack of computer keys. Irene knew more people than Sherlock had even met, and if she didn’t know their kidnapper, she knew somebody who would.

 

“Mary Morstan,” she announced after a few minutes. “Third year of nursing school, about an hour away. Looks clean on the surface, but there’s quite the gossip surrounding her.”

 

“Thank you, Irene,” Sherlock said. “I do believe that I now ‘owe you one’, as they say.”

 

“Oh indeed,” Irene replied gleefully. “You’ll be hearing from me, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock made a face at the phone and stabbed the “end call” button, before heading back to John’s room. Donovan, Stamford, and Molly joined him, all solemn-faced.

 

“John and Sally told us what happened,” Stamford said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “What can we do to help?”

 

“We’re looking for a student named Mary Morstan,” Sherlock replied, and held up his phone to display a picture of her. “She studies an hour away, and Moriarty will want to taunt us, so Anderson can’t be more than half an hour off campus. However, John and I need to testify tomorrow, so we can’t risk being absent.”

 

“What do you need?” Molly asked quietly.

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he leaned in towards the trio. “I need, Miss Hooper, for you to find Anderson.”


	18. Finding Anderson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hopefully things can start wrapping up in the next few chapters, as I feel like this story is kind of losing its steam. Again, many thanks to those who hang on for the questionable ride.

Sally fiddled with her headphones before plugging them into her phone. “Can you hear me?” She asked, bringing the built-in microphone closer to her mouth. 

 

“Loud and clear,” Sherlock replied, seated at his computer. He had created a conference call so all five participants could communicate with each other as Sally, Mike, and Molly searched for Anderson. John sat next to him, monitoring their various locations. 

 

“Alright, here’s the plan.” Sherlock cracked his knuckles. “Sally, you head north, explore the various park areas. Check all the various hiding spots, anywhere where a drunk teenager could sleeping would not be amiss.”

 

“Got it,” Sally replied, turning on her flashlight and heading out into the evening.

 

“Molly, Stamford, you’ll each cover a section of the town. Grid search, as we discussed. Again, places where you could dump an unconscious student without anyone noticing.”

 

“Alright.” Molly and Stamford hopped on their bikes, speeding off in opposite directions. 

 

“John and I will keep track of the locations we have already searched to prevent backtracking, but if need be, we will case the area again.”

 

“Remember,” John added, leaning towards the phone, “we have to find him tonight. If not, a mistrial can be carried, and Moriarty goes free.”

 

“No pressure.” Molly tittered nervously.

 

Stamford cleared his throat. “We could always inform the police.”

 

“There’s no time,” John explained. “By the time we can convince them, it’ll be too late. Only if it’s an hour before the trial and we still haven’t found Anderson, then we’ll call the police.”

 

“Then let’s stop wasting time and find him before something happens,” Sally said adamantly.

 

“Right you are.” John’s heart was in his mouth as he watched the feed from Sally’s mobile, her flashlight systematically sweeping beams through the wooded area. In a separate window, Stamford and Molly’s cameras showed a similar view, occasionally punctuated by a cry of “Anderson?”

 

Minutes ticked by agonizingly slowly, and soon yawns began to echo through the call. After two hours, Sherlock called a pause, and John slugged down a mug of coffee against his better judgement. 

 

“No sign of him,” Stamford said dejectedly, scuffing at a pebble.

 

“We didn’t check the common areas,” pointed out Molly. “Is it possible that he’s in one of those?”

 

Sherlock snapped his fingers. “Yes - but not here. John, look up a Mary Morstan. What’s the best nursing school half an hour away?”

 

“Uhh,” John typed into Facebook, clicking through the results. “Saint Josephine’s.”

 

“Right. Donovan, Stamford, Molly, converge on Saint Josephine’s and spread through campus,” Sherlock instructed. “Look in any buildings with the lights on.”

 

“The library,” Sally added immediately. “They’ll be in the library; it’d be nearly deserted this time. If it’s anything like here, there are little cubicles. Nobody would notice him.”

 

The trio made their way to the library, John and Sherlock watching intently. Opening the doors to each cubicle, Sally and Molly made their way through the hallway, until they opened the next to last cubicle. Inside was Anderson, looking around drowsily while tied to a chair, as well as the blonde that John had seen at the fencing match.

 

“Oh my God,” Sally breathed, rushing towards her boyfriend, but Mary blocked the way.

 

“I can’t let you take him,” she said. “I’m sorry.” Indeed, she did look genuinely apologetic, but the scalpel in her hand did not. 

 

“Let me talk to her,” Sherlock said, and Molly pulled out her earphones and set her phone to speaker.

 

“Mary,” he began, voice tinny over the speaker. “Whatever Moriarty has on you, it’s not worth the criminal charges. Anderson is a key witness, he must be returned immediately.”

 

“And what about a life?” Mary’s voice was quiet, almost trembling. “Is a life worth seeing Moriarty locked away?”

 

“Who does he have?” John leaned towards his own phone. “We’ll find them, I promise. We can rescue them.”

 

Mary’s face crumpled, but she held the scalpel firmly. “Janine. He has Janine,” she whispered.

“Janine? Who’s Janine?” Stamford asked, hands held out placatingly.

 

“Her girlfriend. Janine’s your girlfriend, yeah?” Molly guessed, the deduction far below the level Sherlock usually operated at. Mary nodded, tears threatening to fall from her eyes.

 

“Do you know where?” Sherlock was relentless. “Anything you might know. Who was helping Moriarty?”

 

“Me,” Mary replied. “I was helping him. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t have a choice.”

 

“At least let us make sure Anderson’s alright,” Molly prompted. “Please, this is his girlfriend.” She indicated Sally, who was still hovering nearby. Mary nodded, and Molly and Stamford quickly moved towards him. Stamford opened Anderson’s eyes, shining a flashlight at his pupils while Molly checked his pulse. She nodded, stepping backwards.

 

“He’ll have a hell of a headache, but he should be fine,” Mary said, eyeing the pair. “Chloroform doesn’t knock you out like it does in the movies.” As if to prove her point, Anderson sluggishly turned his head towards Sally, who smiled at him through her tears. 

 

“You have to let us help you, Mary.” John was insistent now. “Sherlock can help you, he’s already stopped Moriarty once. We can find Janine, we can-”

 

“No!” Mary brandished her stolen scalpel at Anderson. “No, you can’t look for her! He said he’d hurt her if I did!”

 

“If you were the only one carrying out his orders, and he’s in prison, how can Moriarty hurt her?” Molly carefully inched away from Anderson. “It seems like you’re the only one.”

 

“But I’m not.” Mary was crying in earnest now. “His friends, they’re watching Janine’s flat. If I go near it, they’ll go after her. Sherlock and John, too. Anyone who knows them. He’ll know, and I can’t - I can’t watch her suffer.”

 

Unconsciously, Sherlock’s hand strayed to John’s.

 

“I understand,” Sherlock said quietly. “Don’t worry, Mary. I know someone who can help us?”

 

“Who?”

 

\-------------

 

Kitty made a vaguely “hello?” sounding noise as she picked up the phone, no doubt blearily rubbing her eyes. 

 

“Kitty, it’s John.” John spoke quietly but urgently, glancing at Sherlock and the screen. “From the newspaper article.”

 

“It’s - two in the bloody morning, John. What the hell do you want?”

 

“I need you to go to somebody’s house. Her name is Janine Hawkins, and she’s being watched. Invite her out so that we can extract Anderson safely-”

 

“ _ What _ ? What are you on about?” Kitty yawned into the receiver. 

 

“Just do it,” John hissed. “ _ And _ you’ll be the first person we reveal the whole plot to.”

 

“Deal.” Kitty was awake instantly. “What’s her address?”

 

Mary relayed it, and a tense half-hour later, Kitty called John back. 

 

“What should I say?” She asked. “Janine doesn’t know me.”

 

“Tell her - tell her you’re going out to Speedy’s, to get some crepes,” Mary replied. “It’s where we went on our first date. She’ll know.”

 

Sherlock and John could hear the doorbell through their receiver, and a slight murmur as Kitty and Janine conversed. Thankfully, the conversation was followed by the click of a car door, and an exclamation of “Mary, oh my God!”

 

“Janine,” Mary blurted, snatching the phone out of Molly’s hands. “Janine, it’s so good to hear you!”

 

“Kitty told me she what happened,” Janine replied. “I’m safe, dear. You don’t need to worry.”

 

Mary broke down again, the scalpel slipping from her fingers. Taking that as her signal, Sally rushed forward and untied Anderson, who was starting to become more alert. She pulled him into a hard hug, burying her face in his shoulder. Anderson wasn’t in a position to reciprocate, so he moved his hand it what looked like an attempt to pet her shoulder. Molly clasped her hands together, smiling radiantly at the romance. Meanwhile, Stamford began edging out of the cubicle, blinking owlishly.

 

“You did it,” John remarked. “You saved Anderson and Janine.”

 

“No.” Sherlock shook his head, curls bouncing. “ _ We _ did it. Molly, Stamford, Donovan - even Kitty. They were every bit as important.”

 

John eyed Sherlock skeptically. “ _ Every  _ bit?”

 

“Oh, well I was the coordinator, so that naturally makes me more important,” Sherlock replied haughtily. John shoved his shoulder with a snort, nearly sending the taller boy toppling.

 

“Come on then Mister Coordinator, off to bed with us,” he said, stretching his arms. “We’ve got evidence to give in the morning.”

 

Sherlock scoffed, but his eyelids were already half-closed. He shoved his laptop off the bed, pulling off his coat before unceremoniously flopping down on the bed.

 

“Happy?” He grumbled. John mimicked his actions, resting so that their backs touched.

  
“I am now.” But Sherlock was already asleep.


End file.
